


The World Could Always Use More Heroes

by ChillieBean



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Interrogation, Mild Blood, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:41:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26578486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChillieBean/pseuds/ChillieBean
Summary: With Talon hot on his tail, Baptiste searches for Dr. Angela Ziegler in Cairo to warn her that Talon has all of Overwatch agents' locations. Who greets him, though, has his world shining a little bit brighter.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25
Collections: Baptember 2020





	The World Could Always Use More Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> WOOO BAPTEMBER 2020!
> 
> This fic takes place after the events of Baptiste's short story, 'What You Left Behind', and Mercy's, 'Valkyrie'. Don't spend too long trying to figure out *when* this takes place in relation to Zero Hour, I tried and it gave me a headache. I just imagine it happens after Zero Hour, too.
> 
> Despite the tags, it's actually lighter than it seems aslkdfjasd.
> 
> Enjoy!

Baptiste sighs, pulling back his collar in vain as the dry, oppressive heat takes hold.

He’s never been fond of arid climates. Humidity he can handle, he’s lived with it for most of his life. Granted, it too can be brutal at times but at the very least, it doesn’t leave his skin feeling like every single pore on his body has withered shut. This heat makes him feel like he’s like standing in a furnace, slowly cooking like a roast chicken. It's inescapable, and no amount of water is enough to quench his thirst.

When he ran from Talon the first time, he actively avoided desert regions. He hated them when he was deployed as an agent, and there was no way he would put himself through that again. Besides, the world was big enough that it was easy to stay away from the planet’s harshest elements.

Now, though, his second time running, he has a plan. As he walks the bustling Khan el-Khalili souq, he tries to blend in. A tourist, looking for a bargain or two. Despite his casual air, slowly making his way through the bazaar, hopping in every other shop, he can feel the weight of Sainclair’s datapad in his pocket, and with it, the weight of all of those agents’ locations who have been exposed to Talon.

It took him a fortnight to get here, and as much as he tries to quash the little voice at the back of his mind that he’s too late and everyone has been rounded up and killed, he reminds himself that it _had_ to take that long to disappear. First, he had to lay low while Sombra created several false trails around the world, not too obvious that they were clearly fake, but gleaned just enough information that someone with motivation could find him. His first five days on the run were spent stationary in Port Antonio, Jamaica, in a cramped one-bedroom apartment owned by someone who owed Sombra a favour. Inside that apartment was a family of six. Still, he was grateful that they took him in, he even cooked a few meals for them as he crashed on their couch.

While she was leaving Baptiste-esque breadcrumbs leading to every corner of the world, she was also creating a false identity for him. Not the first time she’s had to do this, she helped him the first time he ran. Now officially Daniel Edouard, Baptiste was able to leave the confines of the apartment and Jamaica, finally on his way. Having Sombra in his back pocket meant that he could move freely. While he was making his way onto a cargo plane to take him to Tunisia, Talon was chasing his ghost in through Argentina. As he hopped on a commercial fishing vessel heading across the Mediterranean Sea into the Port of Alexandria, his final destination, Talon had hopped across the Pacific and into New Zealand. Sombra’s plan worked flawlessly and would keep his would-be captors busy for weeks.

Still, it didn’t give him complete freedom to move around. Talon had every former Overwatch agent’s names and locations, and it stood to reason that there would be operatives planted at each spot, ready to act on a coordinated strike to take all of them out at once. That’s how Baptiste would do it, anyway.

Every now and then, though, he would see a large figure on the corner of his eye or he would hear that telltale low chuckle, and it would send his heart racing. He is sure it’s his mind playing tricks—Sombra confirmed that while Mauga had survived the explosion on Port-de-Paix docks, he had been injured and was still in the hospital. There was no chance that Mauga would be out here, under Cairo’s baking sun, and yet, Mauga was here, ever-present in the back of his mind, stalking him.

The moment he landed in Cairo, he set to the task at hand. Finding the hospital where Angela Ziegler works was easy—tales of the great Mercy from Overwatch were whispered on hopeful kids’ lips, not unlike Esther back at the clinic. The lead, however, was a dead-end, and he was told that Dr. Ziegler had gone on sabbatical. It’s possible that she had already left to join Overwatch once more given she would have received the recall, but she had made it abundantly clear back when their paths first crossed in Venezuela that she wanted nothing to do with the fallen organization. She might be using the sabbatical to go home or to work another clinic somewhere else in the world. He told himself, at least, hoping that Talon hadn’t already gotten to her. She would be a high priority target, after all. 

With help from Sombra, he got his hands on Angela’s last known address. It’s local to this souq, it’s why he’s dared to brave a public area in the afternoon instead of sticking to the shadows at night. The sooner he gets to her, the quicker his mind will be at ease, and the happier he will be because he can leave this blistering heat behind him.

As the afternoon drags by slowly, his one saving grace is that the sun’s intensity diminishes, making it slightly more tolerable to window shop through the souq. By the time twilight is upon the city, his shirt no longer clings to him with sweat.

He makes his way to Dr. Ziegler’s apartment building. Most of the population of the city is feasting, making getting around easier than originally thought. Easier to keep an eye on those who are still roaming the streets, easier to determine if they are a tourist or someone under a fake alias just like him, sticking to the shadows. 

Standing at the front door of Angela's apartment, Baptiste breathes a sigh of relief that there aren’t any obvious signs of a break-in. He knocks on the door to start, in case she is home, and when he is met with a long stretch of silence, he picks the lock in a manner of seconds, quickly making his way inside. It's not an act he condones, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and the last thing he wants is to walk away when the hit could have potentially already taken place.

Her apartment is scant, but not abandoned. Furniture is still present, non-perishables and crockery are still in the cupboards in the kitchen. The place is clean, no dust has collected on the small round dining table; if she has left the city she hasn't been gone long. He makes his way to one of the rooms, her study if he were to guess. Her table is neatly arranged, nothing is out of place.

Fortunately, there are no obvious signs of something sinister at play, and that sets Baptsite's mind at ease.

The next question to ask is, where is she now? She might be in the safe confines of another hospital, visiting friends or family, or potentially locked away in some Talon cell. If that were the case, though, he knows that Sombra would tell him. There is nothing on her desk to indicate where she might be, no printed itineraries or flight information.

As he leaves her study, heading back towards the kitchen to look for clues as to where she might be, he is struck in the head by something hard. He falls to the ground in an unceremonious heap, intense pain blooming from the back of his head. His ears ring, his vision blurs, his hand trembles as he touches the spot, barely registering the red on his fingertips. 

Eyes growing heavy, the last thing he sees is a man standing over him, a rifle in his hands. All Baptiste can make out is his grey hair and the glowing red visor of his masked face. Unrecognisable.

This is it. Talon caught him. He tries to move but his arms and legs won’t respond.

This time, there’s no escape.

Everything goes black.

* * *

Baptiste wakes with a start.

He tries to move but he can’t. He looks around, frantic, his breaths are quick and shallow. He’s in a room, nothing but four walls, a door, and a carpeted floor. It’s not a cell or an interrogation room though. If he were to guess, he is in a house. 

A quick glance down at himself reveals that he is fine, he has sustained no other injuries other than the dull throbbing behind his ear. He is sitting in a chair, but he can’t move his arms or legs. Looking over his shoulder reveals that his hands are bound with duct tape behind the chair, his ankles tied around separate chair legs.

He thinks about his next move. There is nothing in the room he can use to cut the bindings. He tries to move his hands, but his reach is extremely limited. The smooth wooden chair has no weak points; no bolts that can be wiggled free, no splinters he can use to cut through the tape. 

Right now, he is at the mercy of his captors.

He doesn’t think they’re Talon; this isn’t their MO. _If_ it were Mauga, Baptiste would already know, he’d likely already have a gun in his face or a knife against his throat. He supposes it’s possible that Talon enlisted outside help to track him down, and this is a pit stop before he is delivered on a silver platter to whoever wants him. He's sure Nguyen would pay big money to have him after the stunt he pulled back in Port-de-Paix. 

The door swings open, revealing a greying man with a mask covering his face. Baptiste has a vague recollection of seeing him before he passed out. 

“He’s awake,” the masked man calls out. So he isn’t working alone. His voice, while modulated, sounds familiar. There is a gruffness behind the mask he can’t quite place. 

The man stands in front of Baptiste, arms folded across his chest. He doesn’t appear to have a weapon on him, not unless it’s concealed on his back. “Jean-Baptiste Augustin. Former Caribbean Coalition soldier who moved onto bigger and brighter things with Talon. Officially, your record states that you abandoned Talon, then you spent the next four years hopping around, playing humanitarian and helping out wherever you could—refugees, victims of war—never staying in the same place longer than a week. Eventually, you settled back home, Port-de-Paix, the longest you’ve stopped in those years before you were visited by two Talon soldiers. The three of you roughhoused Vernand Sainclair, and now, you’re here. I want to know why.”

Baptiste glares at the man. It’s a pretty thorough transcript of the last few years of his life. Things that Talon would know. If this man is working for them, there is no way he’s going to sell out Dr. Ziegler.

“You said it yourself,” Baptiste replies. “I don’t stay in the same place longer than a week. I moved on.”

“See, I would buy that if you didn’t have Talon in your ear.”

“They’re _not_ in my ear,” Baptiste growls.

“Officially your record states that you abandoned Talon,” the man repeats. Baptiste resists the urge to roll his eyes at this shoddy-at-best interrogation. “But you and I both know that the only way you leave Talon is in a coffin. No, if you had abandoned them, those two men would have killed you the moment they found you.”

Baptiste inhales and exhales slowly. This specific line of questioning is _odd_ for someone working _for_ Talon. He could lie but he is sure this man will know, Baptiste isn’t the greatest liar. That, and they knocked him out and tied him to a chair, after all. This interrogation could turn bloody at any moment. 

Still, there is something familiar about the man in front of him. It’s not setting off any alarm bells, oddly enough. Baptiste might not know the person behind the mask, but he sees no point in lying to him either. Not yet, anyway.

“They wanted me back,” Baptiste says. “One of them was a former squadmate. He has a soft spot for me.”

The man barks a laugh. “You must be pretty special, then.”

Baptiste merely shrugs. 

“I don’t want to have to hurt you, but I will if you don’t tell me _why_ you’re here.”

Looking up at the masked man, Baptiste wonders if he can get him to reveal who he is. Telling the truth seems to be working in his favour, if not for the fact that he isn’t bleeding all over himself right now. “I have information I need to pass onto a friend.”

“What information?”

“They’re not safe here.”

“Why not?”

Baptiste narrows his eyes. This guy isn't the chatty type. While he might be familiar, Baptiste is yet to trust him. _He_ could have been sent to dispatch Dr. Ziegler and has been waiting for movement. But, the man isn’t asking _where_ she is, he’s fixated on _why_ Baptiste is here. Is the masked man protecting Angela? Right now, that makes the most sense but revealing that he knows that Talon has all of Overwatch’s former agents' locations could put him in harm’s way— _if_ this guy is Talon or an affiliate, confessing to warning a former Overwatch agent, the _enemy,_ that Talon is after her, could be the end of him. 

“Oh, for _crying_ out loud,” a woman huffs, storming into the room with a woven tray in her hands. Baptiste isn’t sure what’s more curious—the fact that she is unmasked, or that the tray has a teapot and teacups resting on it. “We can trust him.”

“ _That_ is yet to be determined,” the man spits. After a moment he steps away, letting the woman approach. 

“Hold these,” she says to the man, extending the tray. When the man doesn’t move, she _tsks_. “ _You_ insisted on removing all furniture from this room.”

The man grumbles something, too quiet to hear as he takes hold of the tray. The woman picks up a medical scanner sitting beside the teapot and holds it above Baptiste's head. The warm blue light activates as she takes her scans, Baptiste stays still, keeping his eyes on the woman. She’s older, in her sixties at least, with grey hair and wrinkles on her battle-worn face. She’s got an eyepatch covering her right eye, and a tattoo of the Eye of Horus under her left. 

There is one person he knows who had that same tattoo, he looked up at her poster every night before going to sleep and every morning when he woke. The hero of Overwatch who would save him from his crappy life. The woman who would rescue him from the orphanage and would give him a proper home with a loving family.

Ana Amari is dead. There is no way she could be _here_.

“Everything looks fine,” the woman says. “The wound is healed, there are no signs of concussion. Does this hurt?” She presses hard fingers to the wound and Baptiste winces. “My apologies. I was hoping for a delicate touch, but Mr. Shoot-First-Ask-Questions-Later took charge.”

“ _You_ couldn’t get a clear shot,” the man says, defensive.

The woman deactivates the scanner and looks down at him, smiling sweetly. “Tea?”

Ana Amari is dead, yet this woman looks _exactly_ like her.

“It would be my pleasure, but…” Baptiste glances over his shoulder, trying to shift his hands in vain.

“Such a charmer,” the woman says. She picks up the teapot, pouring tea into the three waiting cups. “There is no point in hiding things from you.” She picks up one teacup, it's ceramic and has hand-painted flowers on it. No doubt she bought it from the souq, but these are the kind of cups you would serve to old friends, not the person you're interrogating.

Ana Amari is dead, but _if_ she were alive, she would be this woman’s age.

“You arrived in Cairo two days ago," the woman says. "You laid low, but then you sought out Angela Ziegler, first visiting her clinic, then her home.”

Baptiste doesn’t answer, watching her sip on her tea. All it does is make him acutely aware just how dehydrated he feels. Curse this heat.

“Am I correct, Mr. Augustin?” she prompts.

“Baptiste, please.”

“Baptiste,” the woman repeats. She reaches for something else on the tray, it’s not until it’s in her hands that he realises it’s Sainclair’s datapad, and suddenly, his world crashes in. While Ana Amari might be ex-Overwatch, it doesn’t mean she’s aligned with them now. Sainclair is proof enough of that. His thoughts go into overdrive as guilt takes hold, sure he’s put every single name on that list in jeopardy. He _hopes_ that Ana is still one of the good guys, despite the fact that she is yet to formally introduce herself.

“You had this on you when you shouldn’t,” the woman says. Her tone is gentler than before, less accusatory. “What we’re trying to figure out is _why_ you have it?”

A quick look at the system settings of the datapad would reveal that it belongs to Sainclair. Then the realisation dawns on him—right now, to them, he’s the Talon operative who stole it off a former member of Overwatch, who is now using it to hunt down Overwatch agents. He now understands the masked man’s apprehension.

_If_ she is Ana Amari, he has to tell them that Talon knows all of Overwatch agent’s locations.

“I stole it,” Baptiste says. “Sainclair is a mole. He was feeding Talon Overwatch secrets long before it was disbanded. He was using that as a bargaining chip for his life.”

The masked man _tsks_. “And clearly it worked—”

“Because I saved him. The Talon agents I was with wanted to kill him.”

“Why would you save a rat like Sainclair?” the man growls.

“I’ve seen enough death,” Baptiste murmurs. He drops his gaze, focusing on the intricate patterns of the carpet unique to this part of the world as he says, “I’ve got too much blood on my hands.” When he blinks, for that millisecond, he sees houses burning, he can hear the screams of terror. When he opens his eyes, it’s all gone. “Sainclair might’ve been a rat,” Baptiste gives the man a hard stare, “but he didn’t deserve to die.” 

The woman looks at the man, they hold the stare for moments like they’re having a silent conversation. Baptiste gives them as long as they need; if he is lucky, he has earned their trust and they’ll untie him.

“Why Angela Ziegler?” the woman finally says. “You have a list, hundreds of people to whom the recall was sent. Why, out of all of them, did you choose Ziegler?”

“We are acquaintances. We worked together while I was out _playing_ humanitarian.” Baptiste’s eyes flick to the masked man. “I don’t recognise anyone else, I didn’t access their files. Only Angela’s. She deserves to be told that they’re coming for her.”

There is a moment of silence, of stillness. Then, the woman places the datapad on the tray, followed by her cup. She takes hold of the tray and the man reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small knife. For a fleeting moment, Baptiste’s fight or flight instincts kick in. He gave them the information they were after, and now they’re going to kill him.

Baptiste holds his breath as the man steps behind him. He roughly takes hold of Baptiste's hands and his bindings are cut. Baptiste breathes a sigh of relief and as he brings his hands in front of him to remove the tape from his wrists, and he can't help but half-groans as his arms protest. The man cuts the tape around his ankles, and Baptiste moves his legs away, stretching them out. He peels the tape away, dropping it on the floor, and stands. The woman offers the tray, and Baptiste takes one of the untouched cups, drinking deeply.

“Jasmine,” Baptiste says, eyeing the golden liquid in the cup. He meets the woman’s eyes, smiling. “A favourite.”

“A man of taste,” she replies, smiling broadly. Her eyes flit to the masked man.

Baptiste looks between them. Now it’s his turn to get answers. “Who are you?”

“You tell me who I am,” the woman says playfully. “I know you recognise me.”

“The person who I think you are is dead,” Baptiste replies, just as playful.

“And it’s better to stay that way,” the man says. 

“I _really_ like him,” the woman says. She extends a hand. “Ana Amari.”

Baptiste takes her hand, taken aback by her strong grip. “A pleasure to meet you.” As he takes back his hand, his gaze shifts to the masked man. 

“Don’t worry about him,” Ana says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “He doesn’t trust anyone.”

“For good reason,” he grumbles. Despite his frostiness, he places a hand over his mask, unlatching it with the other. He pulls it away, revealing a face so bone-achingly familiar it practically transports him back to the orphanage. Baptiste couldn’t go two feet without seeing _some_ image of Jack Morrison, Overwatch’s leader. When news broke that he had died in the explosion, a part of Baptiste died with it—if the most decorated man in Overwatch’s history, the world’s greatest hero of the time had died, what hope did the rest of humanity have?

The Jack Morrison standing in front of him, though, isn’t the same man he remembers from the press conferences. This man is angry, jaded. Stubborn, too, as he takes the last teacup from the tray, downing the tea in a manner of three gulps with his eyes set on Ana. Ana looks back with a single eyebrow arched.

These two have so much history, and right now, it is a little overwhelming to be in their presence.

The heroes of his childhood thought dead are very much alive.

The world suddenly looks a little brighter.

Morrison places his cup on the tray and walks out of the room, returning almost immediately with Baptiste’s gun. He hands it over, Baptiste takes hold of it, but Morrison doesn’t let go. There is a hard look in his eyes, a threat— _if you do anything stupid, I won’t hesitate to put you down._ Baptiste hears it loud and clear, he nods, and finally, Morrison lets go of his gun.

“Angela isn’t here anymore,” Jack says. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out Baptiste’s phone, handing that over too. “There are coordinates on there. They could use all the help they can get if you're willing to provide it.”

“ _They?_ ” Baptiste opens the map, a little red blip on the water’s edge of Gibraltar flashes up. “Who?”

“Angela and a few others.”

“Angela…” Baptiste cannot help but grin as he has the realisation. He got _played_. “You talked to her already.”

“Sent her a picture of you after we knocked you out,” Jack replies. “She confirmed who you were, and said you were one of the good guys.”

Baptiste cannot help but smile, remembering her parting words: _You’re one of the good guys_. “So why the theatrics?”

“She might trust you, but we didn’t.”

“ _He_ didn’t,” Ana says. “I did.” She leans in a little, stage whispering, “But he doesn’t trust anyone, don’t take it personally.”

“ _Trust_ got me killed,” Jack intones. 

"Consider this an initiation ritual," Ana says, nudging him gently with her elbow. "Honestly, you got away a little lighter than what we used to get up to."

Baptsite scoffs. "You knocked me out."

"Well we didn't know who you _were_ at the time," Ana says. She smiles softly. "We protect our own."

With a nod, Baptiste eyes the map again. Jack mentioned there were others with Ziegler. As much as he knows that stopping, remaining stationary in a place for an extended period of time could lead to trouble, the mere thought of working with others, for the greater good, having a team watching his back... it sounds _nice._

“Are you coming,” Baptiste asks, keeping his tone as light as he can without sounding too hopeful. It’s one thing knowing his heroes are alive. It’s another to _work_ alongside them, to learn from the best.

They share a glance, but it’s Ana who says, “We work better in the shadows. There’s more we can do for them there than in the public eye.”

Baptiste nods. It makes sense. Still, he can’t help but feel a little disappointed that it’ll probably be a long time before he sees them again.

“Well, what are you waiting for, kid?” Jack says, his lips quirk upwards slightly. “They’re waiting for you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/BeanChillie) and [PillowFort!](https://www.pillowfort.social/ChillieBean) Come say hi!


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